Shift
by The Samurai Chef
Summary: DRABBLE. Goemon isn't sure when his relationship with Lupin and Jigen became personal - but he understands it can be a double-edged sword. Warning for passing reference to abuse. Loosely connected to The Trick is to Keep Breathing.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lupin, Jigen, or Goemon. However, I DO own the words with which I have described the characters' situation.

**Important Note:** Here is another drabble which is also an excerpt (or two) from an ongoing public roleplay I'm in at LupintheThirddotNet. I roleplay as Goemon and NOT Lupin, so the short bit in this drabble about Lupin running off to find peace of mind would be an event which was created by his respective roleplayer and not something I made up; that event is just reduced to an observation Goemon dwells on in _this_ piece. :) In short, this fanfiction simply explores only_ Goemon's_ end of things, which is why it can be labeled Goemon-centric. For clarity's sake, I've actually borrowed just a little from another post I've written to flesh this fanfiction out a little, so what you see here is not identical to the post I wrote on the forum. This might not work as well as a stand-alone piece like other excerpts of mine, but I still enjoy it, and hope you do too. In case you're wondering why I upload mainly roleplay posts and don't just flat-out write a fanfiction, most of my energy goes into roleplays these days, and it is in working with other people that I'm inspired to explore all sorts of things I either didn't consider or was too reluctant to figure out.

Warning for subtle reference to sexual abuse in dojo-environment.

* * *

Another bolt of lightning tore jaggedly through the sky, the kitchen briefly suffused with a soft violet before it sank into darkness again, heavy with humidity. Hunched over the table as if poring over blueprints, Goemon picked at leftovers. A deep rumble filled the air a moment later, hitting a pitch that made the windows buzz.

He felt like a cow with the mechanical motions of his jaw. Cold rice and snap peas crunched between his teeth, salmon tasting oily. He was grateful, however, that he hadn't forced himself to shrug off his heat-languour and cook; eating felt like a chore. The refrigerator hadn't been stocked to his liking, either, foods haphazardly shelved. They had broccoli, some rank cheese he hadn't the stomach nor the desire to touch, a head of lettuce, t-bone steaks, eggs, the carton of orange juice from the guest bedroom, and milk nearing the expiry date. He had found only bagged vegetables and ice cream in the freezer.

Rain peppered the roof, sounding like a shower of pebbles. Goemon remembered watching Lupin take off and make for the dock with an impetuosity that couldn't be shaken out of him; he had worried that in his convalescent drowsiness, his friend would slip off the creaky planks or break through mid-step. But the ronin had understood, from the glance his colleague threw his way, that he was to respectfully keep his distance and let Lupin wander like a restless ghost until he found the answers he was searching for; it was what Goemon would have wanted himself, in the same position. Room to breathe, and to think without the tension of being under scrutiny.

Setting aside his fork, Goemon tried to roll the maddeningly persistent ache out of his shoulder. The muddy-green biwa paste he had prepared for Lupin was still in the mortar where he had left it last, congealing. _If he pulls his stitches and bleeds,_ he mused with growing exasperation, _I will have nothing to do with it._ But it was a remark made in bitterness, an empty threat. Something more than a sense of obligation would compel him to sit there by Lupin's bedside, if he had to, and patiently redo every stitch in silence. It didn't matter if he wanted to crumple in exhaustion, if his eyes swam and burned.

When his friends had pulled him out from under Sandayu Momochi's foot, the ronin had been all but indescribably relieved, wearing the same darkened expression of calculating hate and of glassy-eyed apathy he had seen on Ryota's face, whenever Sensei had summoned him in the small hours of the morning. Those acts of servitude, of bending to Momochi's will, were something they all preferred to ignore like dirt swept under a carpet. It was easier, in theory, to turn away and move on as if nothing ever happened. Life under the grey-tiled roof of the dojo was stifling, tightly controlled.

Goemon had been reluctant to grow attached to anyone then, let alone Lupin and Jigen, let alone these men who seemed to answer his threats with derisively careless shrugs, these men whose laughs had worked his blood to a boil. He hoped to maintain an icy professionalism and keep them an arm's length away, but somewhere along the lines, his own sentiments had betrayed him. It had been an uphill battle to learn and unlearn, to stop overanalyzing every pat on the shoulder, and to find sleep when the darkness in an empty room had felt intimately threatening.

However far he pulled away from Lupin or Jigen now, he always snapped back like an elastic band. So much – _too_ much had changed. It brought cold comfort convincing himself, just for a moment, that he could cut his ties at any time and feel nothing...

It was inevitable, after all, that the time would come in which they would part ways. He had always preferred to think of it as something in the indefinite haziness of the future, a real albeit distant threat. He imagined they all feared that the dissolution of their bond should happen by force - owing itself to a misstep and a grisly death. A quiet end to their careers was what they all hoped for.

A menacing crack of thunder made the foundation of the house shudder and drew Goemon from his thoughts.

Fork clinking against porcelain, he brought his bowl to the dirty stack of them in the sink. He contemplated finding peaceful preoccupation in washing the dishes, but was suddenly distracted by the static hiss of rain, louder and sharper as the patio door slid open. It shut with a thump, behind two pairs of feet.

It was time.


End file.
